


Thoughts of a Dying Man

by meganlodon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Dark, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganlodon/pseuds/meganlodon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was getting harder for him to breath. The man gasped for air, his torn throat trembling as he failed to consume enough oxygen, his eyesight blurring even more, the colours more jumbled together, turning into a watercolor painting that swirled around and around. His grip on the boy’s robe was slackening.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>"And I know you're in this room<br/>I'm sure I heard you sigh<br/>Floating in between<br/>where our worlds collide</p><p>scares the hell out of me<br/>and the end is all I can see" </p><p>- "Thoughts of a Dying Atheist" by Muse </p><p>The end of one of the most complex characters in the Harry Potter series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoughts of a Dying Man

**Author's Note:**

> Just a re-post of a fanfic that I wrote on harrypotterfanfiction.com (on which I have the same username but haven't posted on there in almost a year, which resulted in two unfinished and barely started works, but I digress) quite a while ago. I guess that I felt to post this here also.
> 
> I also have edited it a little since my writing has changed-ish. I think. The title is a modification of "Thoughts of a Dying Atheist" which is a song by Muse.

The pain from the snake bite had not registered. His throat was torn, and he knew he was dying. He raised his shaking, weak hands to his neck, trying to keep the wound closed, trying to keep the blood that gushed from his severed jugular vein. He hadn’t fulfilled everything that Dumbledore left for him to do, and it seemed that dying without a struggle, without any desire to live would simply tarnish his legacy.

The boy stepped out from behind a pile of wrecked furniture, and he saw his eyes widen at the gruesome sight that lay before him.

He had no strength to flinch from the boy’s piercing stare. The boy looked at him with the same depth and magnitude as Dumbledore, trying to figure out all of his secrets, but rather than the sharp blue eyes that saw beneath the greasy, black hair and crooked nose of a broken man, the boy had Lily’s eyes, even expressing the underlying emotions that they both failed to hide.

The initial shock of Nagini striking forward at his exposed neck subsided, and pain began to emanate from the puncture wounds in his neck. He steeled himself and forced himself to hold back the fear, the cries and pleas for his quickly diminishing life. His self-control waivered and, his knees weak and struggling to support his weight, he slid further down onto the floor. A rising sense of panic from within the pits of his stomach curled upwards through his veins, manifesting and pouring outwards, not unlike the blood, but it was more subdued than it had ever been.

Crimson liquid continued to spill out, unhindered by the long fingers that held his wound, and he knew, at that moment, the few mere minutes until his imminent death began to count down—he knew he was going to die.

The boy moved closer to him, kneeling downwards to look down with his green eyes at the ghastly wound the man's hand failed to cover. The man was so afraid. Every breath was more precious than the last, and through all the pain, he savored the dry taste of air as it traveled through his trachea and expanded his lungs. His sight blurring, with everything blurring together, he looked up and focused on those eyes... her eyes. The boy had her eyes.

The man was laying, contorted, upon the floor, his back propped up against a cracking wall. It was a pitying sight—the boy watching his old Potions’ master die.

The man’s eyes watered, and along with the numerous tears that started cascading down his cheeks, silvery wisps of memories began to gracefully float down his bloody visage, contrasting the ethereal forms from his stained skin.

The boy knelt down.

“Take…them,” the man gasped to him. The boy held a glass flask to collect the memories, and he stood up with the vial cradled in his hands. The dying man tried to whisper something, but his torn throat failed him.

He knew it was vital that the boy finally learned everything. The entire fate of the wizarding world depended on this single boy’s decision: life, or death. 

He could not look away from the boy’s eyes. They were so similar to hers. Whether or not it was due to blood loss or just the delirium caused by pain, the boy’s features shifted into his mother's, even if the boy was the spitting image of James.

Lily, the man thought, he has your eyes. The exact shape and colour of your eyes. 

The man grabbed the front of the boy’s robes, pulling him close. His black eyes widened, as if they were drinking in the sight of the boy, thirstier than a man lost in the arid desert discovering a stone well.

 _Lily, you would be so proud,_ his own voice whispered in his head. _You’d be so proud to see how far he’s come. But he’s been raised like a pig for slaughter, born to die. Lily, will you forgive me for everything that I have done? All of this time, it was for you. Always, since you died... since I held you in my arms, sobbing over your dead body. It was then that I promised Dumbledore I would watch over him, your son, but it was always for you. Even after all this time, it was always for you._

_I used to wish I were dead, you know? Even before all of this, the fighting and the fear. But I’m dying now, and I’m so afraid. Even after you left, when I begged Dumbledore to kill me, I never felt like this. I never felt so afraid of leaving this world of pain behind. Though it was always miserable, though I was not the only person who hated me, I loved living. But I was afraid of it. And here I am now, dying, and praying that I won't die, that I will get a second chance to live, even if beyond the grips of reality._

It was getting harder for him to breath. The man gasped for air, his torn throat trembling as he failed to consume enough oxygen, his eyesight blurring even more, the colours more jumbled together, turning into a watercolor painting that swirled around and around. His grip on the boy’s robe was slackening.

He weakly pulled the boy close to him.

He could sense the seconds slowly counting down. If he had a clock, the seconds hand starting to go, he wouldn't need to look at it. The previous fear that had so consumed his being only mere minutes before quickly dissipated into a quiet acceptance.

“Look…at…me…" he whispered.

_"The green eyes found black, but after a second, something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty.”_

_\- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_  
  
The man’s grip loosened, and his hand thudded to the floor. Severus Snape lay quite still while Harry Potter continued to stare at his dead body.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you sosososososososo much for reading! I may or may not edit this some more later, but I'm posting this at school... so I believe that's explanation enough.  
> Cheers!


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